


rearrange me until i’m (in)sane.

by orphan_account



Series: rearrange me until i’m (in)sane. [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drugging, M/M, Manipulation, On the Run, Post-Finale, Whipping, hints at mental/physical abuse, mind-games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hannibal breaks him out, they go to France. A romantic tale of drugging, punishment, unwilling empathy and how subtle one must be when playing mind-games with Hannibal Lecter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rearrange me until i’m (in)sane.

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally a series of anon askbox!hannigram fics i sent to deliciouscannibal.tumblr.com. they’re all in order and follow a plot, and they’re numbered because i sent them to her generally in sets of four, but i want to continue this fic without the setbacks of an askbox, so let me know what you think. post-season one finale.

(1) When Hannibal breaks him out, they go to France. Their identities are replaced with new names, new histories, though Hannibal carries himself just the same. Will, though — he feels like this is just another pleasure added to Lecter’s list, another way of twisting Will’s fear of not knowing who he is (now that he finally knows who he is). No one knows who they are, but they know each other.

(2) He knows he’s being drugged, almost on a daily basis, but he doesn’t show it, almost welcomes it. He accepts it because his (laughably coined) freedom is spent with Hannibal now, and Hannibal alone, and that means that he empaths Hannibal every day, every minute, every fucking millisecond of his life, either by his own will or against it (mostly the latter).

(3) Enough time’s passed that the pointless how-could-you’s are no longer a subject matter in their daily conversations (once Will begins to allow conversations, once Will learns Hannibal enjoys his idea of punishment). His hip still has the scar of a whip’s fire-lash sting (iseeyounowiseeyounow being all he could think through that very first time, dick hard, ashamed, Lecter’s hand somehow gentle at his throat.)

(4) He’s a kept man now. “All humans have needs, Will, it’s perfectly acceptable to allow someone to-" and he cuts him off, takes an intense enjoyment in the fact he’s being rude, snips, “Isn’t it a little late to play psychiatrist, *Doctor*?" Because he knows Hannibal is suggesting that he find release for his sexual frustrations. The small print is that Hannibal doesn’t want Will near anyone but him.

-

(5) They move around a lot. It’s a necessity when you’re more or less on the run with a cannibal who enjoys being stationary. Sometimes Will thinks he should thank him, just to see how Hannibal reacts. (youwerecuriouswhatiwoulddo) Thank him because if he were running on his own, he wouldn’t have the *design* to pick these places that smell like well-kept wine, the energy to keep everything behind a cloud, the audacity to go out in public like everything is normal.

(6) Hannibal picks a place by the lake. In the woods. It’s ominous, and Will finds himself going into a habit, re-winding the tape of his mind to see if there’s been something that day he’s done to upset the man. He certainly tries, sometimes it isn’t altogether worth it. He’s tired. His back aches. He likes the house, the old woods. He wonders if Hannibal picked this place because it reminds him of home, of Alana, of his wants to live by an oceanside. 

(7) He explores the house while Hannibal is away, spends the first bouts of his free time doing so. He doesn’t ask when he picks a room (as far away from Hannibal’s as possible; his own rebellious nature) and begins to decorate it. He doesn’t find himself cracking just a little until he opens the closet of the room he’s picked to find Hannibal, as always, a step ahead of him: four fishing poles, all of varying types, with a little notecard that has his name on it. 

(8) He’s reverse-psychologied into the room directly across from Hannibal’s and he knows it. It’s only a matter of time, anyway. He wants to break the poles in half but they’re good, solid, his stomach going weak when he thinks of lures. “Will." He blinks at the window, doesn’t flinch at the hand on his shoulder. Quietly, “Hannibal." The man politely offers him wine and he accepts. He’s going to crack, eventually. The drugs are just a way of keeping that from happening too soon.

-

(9) Hannibal’s grip is warm at his elbow, his own footsteps stuttering over twigs, clumsy. His eyesight is fuzzy, and Hannibal remarks that perhaps he’s had too much wine, and Will laughs, choked and sudden, because he can’t believe they’re still playing this game. The sound seems to make Hannibal go still, and because he is the one guiding Will towards the lake it stops him, too. They stand for a while, Hannibal looking at him and Will looking away.

(10) The water is cold up to his knees, splashing the fabric of his rolled up pajamas. It’s late at night and he feels like a child being watched by a proud parent. Rage licks along the insides of his throat, trying to force a scream, but instead he leans down, cups a handful of water, throws it in his own face. “Will?" Hannibal wants conversations. Water drips back past his curls, down the nape of his neck. Empathy: he knows Hannibal wants to touch him, just then. He rolls off his shirt.

(11) Hannibal guides him back inside when he’s finished swimming, on the verge of hypothermia. “The marks are still there." Hannibal’s voice, close to his ear and so, so low. He feels two fingertips at his back, traveling down a scar. He isn’t sure what he’s shivering from anymore, his body moving in tight jerks, Hannibal’s quiet pleasure (and something like smothered desperation) coming off him in warm waves that make him lean into the touch. “I know. I can feel them like a cattle brand."

(12) “There’s something unremarkable about this room," he says as Hannibal puts him to bed in dry pajamas. It’s a sentence that makes Hannibal pause which gives Will another little spark of pleasure. He’s learning things to say, little things, that seem like nothing but are actually carefully barbed constructions. “You’re inebriated, Will. You should rest." It’s the only response he gets, but the earlier hesitation is good enough for now.


End file.
